What John Doesn't Know
by MarienSully
Summary: John and Sherlock are partners in more ways than one. But there are things that Sherlock can't share. When all seems lost, Molly comes to the rescue. Before and after the Fall. Very mild, insinuated slash. Descriptions of severe depression/suicidal thoughts. Un-beta'd at the moment because I just learned about Beta and don't have a person yet.
1. Chapter 1

**Updated for spelling, grammar, and irritating typos. I will be updating the rest of the chapters and fleshing them out as I go. The general story won't change but some details or descriptions may. Established JohnLock as an extension of my first story "What Am I?" Friendship, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, mild insinuation of slash.**

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Life With Sherlock

It had been many months since that amazing night when John and Sherlock had finally revealed to each other how they really felt. They hadn't had an easy time of it. Life with the world's only Consulting Detective would never be easy. But then it would never be dull either. Sherlock was still Sherlock. He was still socially awkward, becoming ecstatic about crimes and making generally rude comments that he didn't realize were a problem until John cleared his throat. He still got bored when there were no cases to solve, however John now had new ways of distracting him. Not that that was ALL they did in their spare time. Just the first blissful few weeks of their new intimacy.

Lestrade had caught on to the change in their relationship rather quickly but didn't make it a big deal. He'd caught John's eye at a crime scene, gestured at the consulting detective with his notepad and raised his eyebrows. At the doctor's slight grin and barely perceptible nod he snorted and said "About bloody time." Then he moved off to discuss the case with his aides. John learned later, via a snide remark from Donovan that Lestrade had made over a hundred quid in the pool betting that John and Sherlock would be more than colleagues before the end of a year. Donovan was a sore loser, having bet that John would have moved out before the year was up.

Irene Adler had died twice since John learned that she'd only been a distraction for Sherlock. The first time she died it had been faked in order to protect her from being hunted down for her information. The second time around it had been confirmed by Mycroft, but something about it didn't sit right with John. Probably anything to do with The Woman would rub him the wrong way no matter how long dead she was.

Sherlock had dragged him to Baskerville to solve the mystery of the monster hound. That had been an emotional case. John had never seen Sherlock terrified before and decided he would prefer not to see it again. He also resented being used as an experimental mouse without being asked beforehand. Sherlock never quite apologized for that but John finally let it go. The benefit of the change in their relationship was that they could comfort each other after the harrowing cases in ways that never failed to reduce tension. It was glorious! The excitement and danger of being Sherlock's partner on cases, combined with the intense passion of being his lover filled John Watson's days to overflowing.

There was a downside of all of this...activity. John was exhausted! Not a young man anymore, he was having trouble keeping up with the excesses of his companion. Sherlock seemed indefatigable. He sometimes woke the doctor in the middle of the night to discuss cases. Sometimes he would let John get back to sleep, but frequently he wouldn't and they both didn't sleep for a long while. The next day was invariably an early one with a hurried summons from Lestrade to help with another case. Unless the weary doctor could snag a nap during lab work with Molly, he wouldn't get any sleep at all. She'd taken to keeping a cot in the side office for John, which he used far more often than he wanted to admit to Sherlock, and less than he felt he needed. He hoped that in his partner's absorption with the tests being run that Sherlock wasn't aware of John sneaking off to catch catnaps.

...

What John Doesn't Know

Sherlock was **always** aware of John. Since the day the man had moved into 221B, the detective was aware of his very presence in the world. Yes, there were times when he didn't notice that John had left the flat, but the doctor was present in other ways when he was physically absent. His laptop, books, newspapers, medical journals, even his cologne filled the flat with **John**. When their relationship changed, Sherlock's awareness became more focused. He was aware of everything that affected his flatmate. He was aware that he was running John ragged. He was aware that John desperately needed a holiday. He was even aware that Molly was doing what she could to help, and he appreciated that. But more than that, he was aware that at any point Moriarty would come back to put them both in very real danger. With Moriarty so focused on Sherlock he would know that John was more important to the detective now. He could still hear that maniacal voice grating "I will BURN you. Burn the HEART out of you." John was his heart. Sherlock's affection, fear, desire, need, love for his doctor was barely kept under control with the AWARENESS of their limited time. John was in danger. Whatever happened, John had to be protected. Sherlock had some ideas about Moriarty's end game and that he might lose everything when it came to pass, but he would risk everything to save John. Even if it meant losing him. He would do his best to win this mad game, but he might not succeed, so he was taking full advantage of their time together before it was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Updated for fleshing out the story, fixing grammatical errors and typos. Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.**

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After The Fall

Internet Blog of John Watson:

Devastation. It feels like the world has ended and forgot to take me along. There's nothing left for me. There was no reason to life before him. There is no purpose to life after him. Dear God Sherlock why did you fall?! Why?! I will never believe that you lied to me, to the world, not even for a moment, except for that phone call. That was all lies. There was no truth in your "note" except the tears. The emotion. That was real. That was always real.

...

What John Doesn't Know

Sherlock bowed his head. The eerie glow of the computer screen illuminated the tracks of tears on his high, pale cheekbones.

_The tears. Yes, John, those were real. They were very real._

A gentle hand touched his shoulder in sympathy. Without looking he reached up to clasp that hand. "Molly, he sounds like he's dying."

The broken voice nearly knocked the wind out of her. She'd known for years that Sherlock had a softer side. One that he'd hidden from the world, from everyone he'd ever known. She had hoped, all this time, that she would see that softer side of him one day. Now wished she could take back every wish she'd ever made if this was to be how they were answered.

"He's fighting very hard to find a reason to go on. You were his life. How can he replace what you gave him?" She squeezed his hand and walked to the couch where she inelegantly plopped down . Sherlock was staying in her mother's old place in Sussex for now. She'd come by to make sure he had everything he needed. Food, clothing, bed sheets, a replacement violin, and a laptop. John kept Sherlock's violin in the same place Sherlock had left it. She'd seen it last week when she was helping him to box up some of Sherlock's clothes. John was planning to leave Baker Street but it was difficult packing up the flat. He'd asked for help with the clothes because he'd break down in sobs every time he could smell his partner on them.

That's how Molly got the clothes for her fugitive. She'd taken the boxes from John, saying she'd donate them. Prior to that, Sherlock had been stuck with what she could find at rummage because they had very little money available. What with arranging for Sherlock's medical care, trying to keep her job, and making sure she appeared properly mournful during the funeral services, it had taken her nearly two weeks to set up the wi-fi and provide Sherlock with a laptop.

Watching the man she had adored for years weep on reading his lover's blog made her wonder if it had been a good idea to give him the computer. There was really no way around it though, as he couldn't physically do much yet. He was bruised and battered after the Fall. He had researched the best ways to survive a fall from a height like that but Molly had made it possible. She had worked with his homeless network to stage the street crowd. All the witnesses had been hired and set up within a few short hours of his request for her help. They'd set up layers of foam padding for Sherlock to hit when he landed, to be quickly hidden before John reached the scene. It had been enough to save the detective's life, but not to prevent all damage. He had broken ribs, a broken left wrist, severely scraped and bruised knees, and a real gash on the right side of his head that had added to the pool of blood that had been created with his own, previously donated blood. He was a horrible patient, but obviously there were more wounds present than were visible on the surface.

"Molly?"

The voice broke through her disconcerting thoughts and she glanced up at him. "Yes?"

He was looking right at her. Tears stained his face, reddened eyes were filled with determination. "Molly I have many things I have to do before John can know I'm still alive. There are people out there with orders to kill him, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if they find out I didn't die."

Molly nodded. "You've explained this already."

He leaned forward, staring at her intently "Yes, but you need to understand! I AM alive! John will learn eventually, but until he does..." he shook his head, seeing that she wasn't grasping the meaning. Getting up from his seat he knelt in front of her, grasping her hands in his, his intensity forcing her to meet his eyes so that she could read from them how very important this was.

"He. Must. Stay. Alive." He shook her hands with each word to drive home the point. "He doesn't want to, Molly. He's becoming suicidal. Even you can read that in his blog! Molly!" She had tears in her eyes and she was nodding. She'd seen it, too. But she'd seen it in John's face. In the way that he would sit in his armchair staring morosely at the place where his love used to sit. It broke her heart every time she visited because she couldn't tell him the one piece of information that would take his pain away.

"What can I do?" She fought a losing battle with her tears. She loved this man. She knew now it wasn't passionate love. It wasn't the kind of love that he and John shared. But she loved him intensely and wanted to help. This man deserved happiness and right now she was seeing him at the lowest point in his life, something that she never could have imagined being witness to. She lost her fight and the sobs shook her tiny form as she dropped her head into her hands.

Sherlock had been expecting this for some time. He'd known of her fondness for him, had even used it to manipulate her into helping him or giving him access to the lab after hours. He knew that she'd been hurt when he and John first became lovers, there was no avoiding that. But Molly had always been there for him when he needed her, no matter what he did or said that made her feel unimportant. He needed her more than ever now, and with the sensitivity that John had been silently creating within him, Sherlock knew that Molly needed something from him first. So he sat beside her on the couch, wrapped his long arms around her slender, shaking body, and held her until her sobs subsided and her breathing calmed.

Sherlock shortly realized that Molly had fallen asleep in his arms, and though she was not the person he would rather be cuddling, he found that he was not averse to holding her a while longer. Before long, he too drifted into dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Third chapter updated for more story fleshing out, typos and stuff that happens when I'm in a rush to publish. Enjoy!**

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Life Without Sherlock

_He was talking again. He was often talking but this time it hurt to hear it. There was raw emotion in the voice as it told him lies. It told him that his faith was misplaced, that his lover was a fraud. The agony in that voice, the voice on the other end of the mobile, laid open the lie. But the lies kept flowing. John was aching to tell him everything. Tell him how much he loved, admired, respected, needed this voice in his life. But he was confused. He didn't know what was going on._

_By the time he understood, it was too late. The mobile fell to the rooftop and his beloved fell to the pavement with a horrible broken thud. John was yelling, screaming his name, trying desperately to get to him, but he was prevented. By the cyclist who knocked him down. By the asphalt that made his head throb and his vision blur. By the people who tried to help by keeping him away. He kept crying out the name. Over and over and over..._

"SHERLOCK!" John jolted upright in bed at the sound of his own voice, drenched in sweat and trembling. Again. Every night the same nightmare. Nothing changed. He never told Sherlock what he needed to say. Sherlock always jumped. John never reached the body, never touched his love again. Panting, he lay back against the sweat-damp pillow, curled himself into a fetal ball and cried himself back to sleep. Again.

...

What John Doesn't Know

Molly had done it again. She'd made all the arrangements that Sherlock couldn't while being so focused on his work. She'd given him a place to stay, a mobile under a pseudonym, acted as the go-between for Mycroft so that Sherlock didn't have to talk to him. Most importantly, she had arranged a position at a London hospital for John. It wasn't St. Bart's. John couldn't be convinced to approach that building again, not that Molly blamed him for that.

Sherlock was healed enough to hunt down Moriarty's hit men. Any of the leads that took him into London were risky so he'd had to resort to makeup to hide his distinctive features. It really was a hindrance, being famous. Or, in his own case, infamous. He ground his teeth. Molly was applying the coloring to bleach his hair and the process was tedious. Boring! But necessary, so he'd held his tongue this time. He found that he was doing that a lot around Molly lately and he wasn't sure what it meant. Gratitude? Possibly.

She applied the last drops and wrapped the towel around his head. "Right. You let that sit for a while before you wash it out."

"It stinks."

"Of course it stinks, you idiot. You've got peroxide in your hair." Molly was no longer timid around Sherlock. She had seen him strong and she had seen him weak. He didn't frighten her and he didn't cause butterflies anymore. She was certain the infatuation was over. Thank God! With that out of the way she'd found that she was able to relax with him. He was more like a brother who needed special handling. Not the same kind that Mycroft needed. Molly smirked to herself on recalling the last time she'd spoken with the elder Holmes brother.

"No, Mycroft. John is not prepared to deal with you." Molly was determined and her concern for John had given her the strength to stand up to Mycroft.

"Ms. Hooper... " the tall man's voice was condescending so she'd cut him off before he could continue.

"Sherlock is grateful for your financial support right now but he warns that since you were the one who sold him out to Moriarty you would likely be risking your own life if you go and see John. Since he believes that you helped cause Sherlock's death..." she paused as the pain of that still gripped her heart.

Mycroft nodded slightly in acknowledgment but in the same movement dismissed the risk. "Yes, he will probably physically attack me. I am prepared for that event. However, for social reasons I must make an appearance before Sherlock returns. I merely wanted to know what your opinion was on the doctor's mentality. Thank you for your visit." With that, he'd stood up and gestured to the door of his office, indicating that the interview was over.

Molly had left, wondering if she would see this Holmes at some point in the near future with a black eye to show for his visit to John. It was obvious he would do it, regardless of Sherlock's warning. She was brought back to the present by the sound of Sherlock grunting as he stood up.

Sherlock groaned as he stretched his legs. Molly, being short, had made him sit on a chair so small his kneed were nearly to his chest, and they ached a little. He paced the kitchen of the tiny cottage, impatient for time to pass so he could get on with his work. Impatient to finish off the last remaining pieces of Moriarty's spiderweb so he could get back to John. He was impatient with his constant reliance on this woman who had so little connection to him, just a convenient infatuation that assured she would allow him lab access when he needed it. And this refuge during his "death". Sherlock thought of Molly for a moment. Based on her recent reactions to him, that infatuation had faded away, yet she still helped. He spun suddenly to face the woman, who was cleaning up the remnants of hair dye from the floor and chair.

"Why?"

Startled, Molly glanced up at him "Why what?"

He cocked his head at her, eyes intense, penetrating, just as they used to be when she'd thought she was in love. "Why are you doing so much for me?"

She'd considered that question periodically on her own for some time. Years really. But her reasons had changed over time and she was ready to face him with the current, newly discovered ones. Straightening up, she put all the dye debris in the bin, crossed her arms over her chest, met his gaze and shrugged. "We're family."

His eyes widened in surprise. That was not the response he expected. Molly was not so easy to read anymore. Had these past months changed her so much? "I'm afraid you're mistaken. We have no biological connection whatsoever. Why would you believe we are family?"

Molly grinned at his naiveté. Even now, his social knowledge was lacking. "There is more than one definition for the word 'family'. Why don't you look up the variations?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered rapidly before he spoke in almost a monotone, "Family: a group of people affiliated by blood, affection, or co-habitation." He grinned at her, amused, a truly stunning sight and something he displayed so rarely now. "You consider us to be family by way of our near co-habitation in this cottage."

Shaking her head she replied softly, "No you idiot, by affection. You and John, you're my family."

For the first time in their long association Sherlock gazed at Molly and allowed himself to really consider how she impacted his life. She'd allowed him to run experiments on her cadavers. She'd given him access to her lab numerous time when she could have gone home. She'd laid out a cot for John when Sherlock exhausted him before the Fall. She'd helped him survive that Fall. She was helping him now with his plans to rid himself forever of Moriarty's web. And she helped give John a reason to keep going even though Sherlock was "dead."

Molly watched his features shift as he analyzed her. It had always fascinated her but it had rarely been directed at her in this particular way. It was emotional and it was amazing. It would have been less silly without the towel still wrapped on his head, but still. His eyes closed for a moment when he obviously reached a conclusion, a tear forming at the corner of one eye.

When he said her name it was almost a whisper. He opened his eyes, his arms, and his heart to her at that moment. She smiled and walked to him, allowing him to enfold her as she'd always dreamed. The emotions were not the ones that she had hoped for all those years, but it was intense and real. His body trembled as he held her. Her tiny form was not the one he preferred to hold but somehow it still gave him comfort. He was uncertain what this meant for his future, knowing that this changed... something. He rested his chin on her head.

"Molly." It was a statement of acceptance. She was part of his life now. She was a person he would protect, like Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade. Or John. No, not like John. This wasn't that kind of feeling. But he would be upset if Molly was gone from his life.

Suddenly a thought struck him. He held her away from him and looked at her, all intensity again. "When I am 'resurrected'," she chuckled at him and he smiled, "I am going to ask John to marry me." Her eyes widened at this new secret to keep from John. Before she could comment he went on, "I want you to stand with me when we say our vows."

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him excitedly. When she let go, Sherlock watched in astonishment at this very female reaction to emotional news as she danced happily across the kitchen floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**I tried to put more of John into this one. I hope it worked. Update includes a new scene with John and Molly. I hope I caught all the errors. **

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Alone

John tried to move on. At least, that's what he tried to convince the world. He moved out of Baker Street with help from Molly and Greg, a saddened Mrs. Hudson looking on. No matter how it hurt her to see him go, he couldn't stay there. Not with everything in the flat reminding him of... Him. The only thing he took with him that had belonged to his partner was the violin that had been his first window into the consulting detective's soul. He woke up in the mornings, forced himself to eat though the food was tasteless. He showered and shaved and went to work. He even made sure his clothes were properly cleaned, pressed, and presentable. The doctor didn't see patients, he didn't have the bedside manner anymore. He worked in surgeries as if he were a med student again, acting as an extra pair of hands but not making any vital decisions. The surgeons accepted his presence because he did know how to help when they needed, often without direction, but they learned quickly that conversation was out. John knew that Molly had worked out the position for him, and somewhere deep inside he was grateful, but it was too deep under his grief to surface when she was around.

After work he always stopped at a pub for a pint. Often that pint became five or six. He used to be an energetic, happy drunk. Now he was morose and brooding. Frequently the barkeep was the one to pour him into a taxi to send him home. On the days that he wasn't working he would usually find that he'd sat staring at nothing for hours, accomplishing nothing but the act of breathing. Breathing is BORING!

The days blurred together. He'd stopped counting them. Sometimes Molly was there but he found it hard to be around her. Molly had been present since the day that Mike had introduced John to his potential flatmate. She reminded John of... Him. John had even stopped thinking the name anymore. He'd never been a particularly happy sort of person, but this was the first time in his life he'd ever been so overpoweringly depressed. He'd attempted to see his psychologist, months after the move, when Molly urged him to go. But the woman wanted him to talk about ... Him. Even 18 months after the loss, it wasn't something he could do yet. He wasn't ready to actively consider everything. So after three sessions he finally stopped. That was also when he stopped writing in his blog. There was no point. Nothing in it altered from day to day.

It was like his whole life was on hold. Nothing touched him. Nothing really made an impact on his daily life. Mrs. Hudson had tried. She'd gone up to the flat with tea and biscuits, quietly sitting nearby when he didn't respond to her presence. When he'd left Baker Street she tried less often. Lestrade had stopped by a few times but apparently morose John Watson was hard for the DI to handle too. Harry called but John didn't answer the phone.

Even Mycroft had stopped by once. For a genius he could be pretty stupid.

"Hello John."

John had been sitting with his loaded gun on the table in case of a sudden urge to shoot the wall, or himself. Neither of those had happened, but when he heard that voice behind him he'd snatched up the gun and stood to point it at the loathsome face of the man who'd sold out his own brother. Two years after his lover's death, John still loathed Mycroft for his part in the loss.

"Leave." John's voice was hoarse from disuse, but the directive was calm and quiet.

Mycroft studied the doctor for a moment. Then, apparently without concern and with no further comment, turned on his heel and walked out.

The only person that kept trying to draw him out was Molly. John never bothered to find out why. Her last attempt had been a disaster and he hoped she would stop.

After work one evening she had found him at the pub. Three pints into his daily binge, he was none to pleased when she sat down beside him. Slamming his mug down after a gulp he'd growled "Go away."

A soft snort answered his comment as she ordered a pint for herself. "You're killing yourself, slowly. It has to stop." She didn't even look at him, like she wasn't willing to meet his eyes.

Staring at her, indignant, John slammed his palm on the bar. "Why?! What's the point?"

He saw how she tensed, as if bracing herself for her next comment and he gritted his teeth as it came out, nearly in a whisper. "He wouldn't want you to die."

"He wouldn't?" the man's face was screwed up with pain and anger, "How the hell do you know what he would want?!" He got off his stool and leaned over her, growling "You were nothing to him. He used you like he used us all. You were lucky though. You didn't really love him, so you can survive now that he's gone. But me? I get to ache every day with the emptiness he left behind. " Surprised and ashamed at himself for his cruelty, he turned and left so quickly that he didn't have see her reaction.

_I've been summoned. Are you coming?_  
_Do you want me to?_  
_Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger._

This time John didn't jolt awake. It was a gradual return to consciousness with the sound of that liquid voice swirling in his dreams. When he opened his eyes to see sunlight glaring at him from the stark white ceiling of his bedroom in his lonely flat, he was aware, finally, that he was truly alone. _Did you know then? Did you know how lost __**I**__ would be without __**YOU**__?_  
...

What John Doesn't Know

"You have to come back!" Molly was the one pacing this time. Up and down the sitting room of the tiny cottage as she railed at Sherlock. "He's wasting away! He's become a drunk. He eats, but only enough to keep moving. He sleeps, but he has nightmares so it's not helping. He goes to work but he doesn't talk to anyone." She stopped pacing to point at the detective as she went on, "You're the one who noticed that he stopped updating his blog. He won't see his headshrinker anymore. SHE actually called ME to check on him! Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson have stopped trying. He responds to me but he's getting violent about it. I swear he nearly hit me this time!" She threw her hands up in the air in frustration and plopped into the armchair opposite the couch.

"I'm almost done, Molly." Sherlock was sitting at the little desk in the sitting room, putting finishing touches on his current plans. He spoke calmly but inside he was aching. John was in danger again, only this time it was from himself. Sherlock had one more assassin to dispose of. He'd been tracked to London, to a flat on the same street as John's. The detective didn't know why the man was still shadowing John, but he was the last piece of the puzzle. This would be the difficult one. This was the true professional, so Sherlock had to take his time to plan appropriately. And according to Molly, John's time was limited.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the extent of John's depression. I have other ideas for how he deals with Sherlock's death but I had to finish this one first. Updated for more detail, grammar and spelling errors.**

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Hallucinations

Today he'd managed to go to the store for groceries without his eyes watering at the sight of the milk that he'd always picked up when he lived on Baker Street. He bought a different brand. He didn't usually purchase very much in the way of food. He didn't eat much anymore, it was all so tasteless he didn't see the point. He walked back to his flat, two bags in tow, eyes downcast, following the street by the now well-known pattern of the paving stones. Suddenly someone bumped his shoulder causing him to drop one bag and spin around. He caught a glimpse of the back of tall man with a head of curly blonde hair moving quickly away, not even glancing back at John.

"Ruddy git." John muttered as he glared at the man's hurrying form. Something about the way that lanky figure moved caught John's attention as the blonde hair disappeared around the bend. The clothes were all wrong; the pants visible from the bottom of the tan great coat were cream colored, the shoes were too dull, but the shape of the form, the way the coat flared behind him as he hurried away triggered something in John. It struck him so hard that he had to sit down right there on the pavement. "Sherlock?" he whispered. That was the first time he'd spoken the name in nearly 2 years.

Suddenly gunshots rang out from around that bend. People screamed and ran in all directions. John shook his head and began gathering up his groceries. In the old days he would have explored the source of the gunshots. That was before. His curiosity, his craving for adventure, had gone into the grave with Sherlock. However, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern as he thought about that tan coat heading toward the location of the sound gunfire.

He shook himself and went back to his cleanup. The milk bottle had broken and the liquid was awash down the drain but the rest of the groceries were still good. Someone knelt near him and started to assist. "Thank you." John said automatically, not looking up as he accepted a can from pale, lithe fingers.

"You're welcome." John froze in the act of bagging his lost groceries. That voice. It was the voice in his nightmares. Still hoarse and emotional, just like that final phone call. The way Sherlock had sounded the last time they spoke.

The doctor shook his head without glancing up. He'd seen the man who moved like Sherlock just moments before. That's why this voice was here. It's not real. It can't be real. Sherlock is dead. His hands began to tremble and he bit back a sob. He was so utterly defeated by the idea of hallucinating Sherlock for the rest of his life that he curled into a ball right there on the pavement. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, hands pressed hard over his ears so that he couldn't hear anymore.

Still, he heard the same voice call anxiously, "Molly! Get us a taxi! We have to get him to the hospital!" He felt a hand stroke his hair and John had just enough left in him to croak a denial "Not Bart's."

...

What John Learns

"He's vitamin deficient, dehydrated, and severely depressed. He was in shock when you brought him in. We've got him on enriched fluids and antidepressants but he won't talk to anyone."

The voice of the physician on his case carried through the thin hospital door to reach John as he lay against the raised bed, staring up at the white ceiling. An agitated, familiar female voice responded with vehemence, "If he's conscious, why won't you allow visitors?"

The calm doctor's voice responded kindly but firmly, "He doesn't want to see anyone."

Familiar? That was Molly. He wouldn't hallucinate Molly. She could come in. He pressed his nurse alarm and told the attendant to let Molly in. The door opened wide as she pushed her way past the nurse. John frowned. That wasn't like Molly.

"John…" She began as she approached the bed, still agitated, "Why no visitors?"

He smiled weakly at her, almost apologetic. "I'm hallucinating, Molly. I only want to see people that I know are real. You're real. I don't have any reason to hallucinate about you."

That stopped Molly dead in her tracks. Ever since that ridiculous row at the pub, he'd spoken only briefly to her, always single word responses when he could. This was the longest comment he had made to her in months. And it was completely insane. She turned on her heel and rushed back out the door.

John heard raised voices again but this time he ignored them, increasing the volume on the telly even though he wasn't watching it. He turned his head towards the window and watched the light rain work itself into a full downpour. The view outside was familiar. They'd brought him to St. Bart's anyway. He closed his eyes as tears began to slowly fall down his cheeks.

He heard footsteps enter the room but didn't move to acknowledge the person. A man by the sound, but not a doctor because there was no movement toward the IV line or the chart at the foot of the bed. Mycroft? No, he would have spoken already, or Molly would have rushed in to remove him. At another time John would have chuckled to himself at coming to conclusions like that just from the sounds. All that time with Sherlock rubbing off on him. Now he simply said "Go away please." His voice was dull, unemotional.

The someone in his room moved to the bed and he felt a soft cloth wipe the tears from his cheek. That voice spoke again. This time it wasn't hoarse, but it was low and it was very emotional, "My John. So polite, even now when you should be so angry with me."

With a sigh, John realized that he was still hallucinating and decided to play through the scene so he could get it over with. Tired eyes opened, expecting to see a familiar, illusory face imposed on the reality of the hospital room. Those eyes widened in surprise at the blonde stranger before him. There was a scar along the side of his face, a scar that John had never seen, that followed the prominent cheekbone to the blonde hairline. There were new lines radiating from the corners of familiar, beloved eyes. How he'd missed those eyes. Even when the face was emotionless, those were so very expressive. Right now they pinned him to the bed with the intensity of their pain, regret, love, hope, and a little fear.

That fear, the scar, and the hair, proved to John that this was no hallucination. He would never imagine Sherlock afraid, or injured. Or blonde. "What the bloody'ell'd you do to your hair?"

Those eyes flooded with relief. The breath that had been unconsciously held was released in a long sigh. Sherlock tentatively reached out a hand to John, who lifted one of his own from the bed to intertwine their fingers until the color of their skin was the only way to tell them apart. John glanced at those fingers and gave a weak chuckle, "I'm almost as pale as you."

...

A little while later, having heard no commotion from the private hospital room, Molly opened the door to glance inside. The sight warmed her heart and gave her hope. Sherlock had climbed into the hospital bed with John. John's body was turned towards the long form of his lover, his head rested in the dip of the shoulder, one hand pressed firmly to Sherlock's chest as if to verify the heartbeat. Sherlock's arm was wrapped protectively about John's shoulder, the other hand covering John's hand on his chest. He was speaking and Molly could hear the low murmur of the detective's voice, though she couldn't make out the words.

Sherlock glanced up at the sound of the door opening, ready to shoo away any medical staff at this critical moment. He smiled when he saw it was Molly. He paused only long enough in his narrative to silently mouth the words "Thank you."

She smiled and stepped out of the room, closing the door softly. Then she pulled out her phone to call Mycroft. "He's back and they're together. Get a guard here and don't let anyone disturb them." She paused for the voice at the other end. "No Mycroft. You cannot see them. You helped cause this, now you can help heal this by leaving them alone." She hung up the phone without waiting for his assent. Before the Fall, Molly would not have been able to stand up to Mycroft Holmes like that. After three years of being the go-between for Sherlock and his brother, Molly was able to cope with anything from the Holmes boys.

She grinned to herself as she settled into a chair by the room that held the newly reunited lovers. Mycroft Holmes was going to have to deal with her before seeing his brother again.

Years later they would all look back on that day in the hospital as the beginning of their lives.


	6. Epilogue

**This has been dramatically expanded from the three paragraphs is was originally. I hope it didn't change too much. **

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Epilogue

The anger came later. The accusations, the cursing, the bitterness, and the pain was all expressed after they moved back to 221B Baker Street with an ecstatic Mrs. Hudson. They weathered the storm and came out of it together. They did it because they had to. Neither was happy without the other. They functioned, but they didn't really LIVE when they were apart. Molly was a frequent guest in the flat now. Her part in Sherlock's death and resurrection caused John some moments of embarrassment when he remembered how he had treated her. His apology was heartfelt, and they shared some tears for the pain they had not been able to express before. He was amazed to see the change in the way Sherlock related to her. She was no longer just the pathologist for the consulting detective, there was something else there that John couldn't identify. Whatever it was, he approved.

Greg Lestrade made regular appearances to the flat with cases to solve, or cases to drink. Sherlock had learned about family.

Sherlock and John were married in a small civil ceremony at Angelo's. The restaurant owner had insisted on having the event at his location "Since this was where you had your first date!" he had proclaimed to the pair. Mrs. Hudson stood as witness beside John while Molly stood beside Sherlock, as promised.

After the ceremony, John invited Molly to take his now vacant room at Baker Street. She said she'd consider it. Glancing to a hidden corner of the room she saw Mycroft's PA, Anthea, filming the event with her ever present phone. Mycroft had not been invited but Molly would fill him in on the details later. They had an appointment the following day to discuss the wedding "over tea." Molly smiled softly. She knew the man was fond of his little brother and the increased distance between them since Sherlock's return was disturbing him more than he would admit.

Molly didn't take the room that John had vacated. She stayed in her own flat until she was married, when she finally had a wish answered properly and became Mrs. Holmes. John had been shocked when the wedding invitation had been delivered, but Sherlock insisted that Molly was stronger than she looked.

"I didn't talk to Mycroft at all when I was gone." the tall man stood at the window of 221B with his violin. He'd been composing a song for Molly's wedding.

Startled out of his contemplation of the elegantly floral wedding invitation, John blinked. "Pardon?"

Sherlock grinned into his sheet music, "Molly did all that. She thought I was angry with him and I needed a message runner." The grin turned smug and his voice held a hint of pride for Molly. "She learned how to handle Mycroft rather quickly. I am pleased at how it turned out."

The doctor stared at him wide-eyed. "You mean you set up Molly and Mycroft? You? The matchmaker?" John laughed at the absurdity of his social misfit being able to manipulate anyone into falling in love with Mycroft.

Sherlock chose to ignore the insult this time. "I admit it wasn't intentional at first. I really didn't want to deal with His Smugness while I was healing. Then she was doing so well that I encouraged it." His voice softened, "Now she'll be my sister."

That stopped John's laughter and he looked at his husband with a new appreciation of the change regarding Molly. Sherlock had allowed Molly past his shields, there was love there now. Without realizing he had left his chair, John wrapped his arms around the long torso of his beloved. Startled, Sherlock's arms hovered uncertainly for a moment, bow and pen in one hand, violin in the other, before he returned the embrace as well as he could.

...

The wedding was held outdoors on the Holmes estate. The gazebo where the groom stood awaiting his bride was resplendent with white orchids and purple lilacs. The floral perfume wafted through the air to fill every heart with the scent of new love. A single orchid graced Mycroft's grey lapel. Always the diplomat, his demeanor today was outwardly calm and collected. Those who knew him well could see he was in a high state of nervous anxiety. Until, that is, he spied his bride.

Molly Hooper was elegantly gowned in simple white lace, a fitting complement to the underplayed style of her groom. White orchids adorned her hair, which fell in cascading waves to her shoulders. Her eyes glowed with love when she saw Mycroft waiting for her.

Escorting the bride toward his brother, Sherlock wore a slim-fitting dark suit, a purple lilac gracing his lapel. John had claimed a seat along the aisle and as the couple approached, Sherlock leaned down to whisper in the bride's ear, "Now we'll truly be family." Knowing that Sherlock had intended him to hear, John blinked back a tear and smiled at his love.

Walking down the aisle on the arm of the man she had long wished to share this day with, on her way to marry the man she would always love, Molly smiled up at her escort, her whole being radiating joy. "We always have been."

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**Thank you, everyone, for reading my first multi-chapter story for Sherlock. I didn't expect to come up with one so quickly, I've only been a fan for less than a month. I will be writing more in the future. Please let me know how this worked for you. Constructive criticism is always welcome. See you soon!**


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